Page 2 of Marisol Acts the Part

He’s been more than a little weird, but calling him out on it won’t make the situation any better.

Miles has always been a terrible texter, but he’s reached new levels of terribleness lately.

He didn’t even respond when I sent him a video of my French bulldog, Bruiser, chasing her nub of a tail.

And he always responds to Bruiser content.

The whole reason I even have her is because he adopted her for me on my birthday last year after I, while high on Novocain from a root canal, spent three hours crying to him about how I didn’t book the lead in the Legally Blonde reboot.

Seriously, who else in Hollywood has a wardrobe as pink as I do? No one.

Not to mention that we’ve barely seen each other this month. If I can get Miles to reply to my texts or answer my FaceTime calls, he usually only has time to brush me off by saying he has “to go to the gym” or has “a meeting in ten.” Who goes to the gym at five in the morning?

Scratch that. I know: soulless people.

Next week, he’ll be moving to New York to settle in before filming The Limit for the entire summer, and who knows how many times I’ll get to see him then. Or if I’ll even get to see him. Showmances aren’t built to last, but we had something different.

Have, I mean. Have something different.

While millions of viewers watched our characters, Celia and Joe, play the will-they-won’t-they game for four seasons, our own love story unfolded with a lot less drama.

From the moment he came ambling up to me on our first shoot day, offering me a muffin from crafty and a handshake, I knew I was done for.

His smile was like a bolt of lightning—sharp and magnetic, leaving me breathless.

The brush of his skin against mine when we hugged at the end of the day made my stomach twist into a thousand knots.

On the drive home, when Mom asked how the first day went, all I’d been able to say was that I felt like I’d eaten an entire bag of Halloween candy.

And I still feel that way sometimes. Especially since we wrapped the show. But that strange fluttering in my gut doesn’t feel giddy anymore—it feels…nerve-racking.

Sometimes I wish we could be more like Joe and Celia—or, as the fans dubbed them, Jolia.

Childhood best friends turned high school sweethearts who braved new relationships, cheating scandals, and a very dramatic senior year breakup before ultimately finding their way back to one another ahead of prom.

A love story trapped in time, sealed with the perfect kiss-in-the-rain ending.

In real life, we don’t get the luxury of a season finale.

“Sorry. M’fine.” Miles shakes himself off before turning back to me with a smile, reaching for my hand across the table.

And just like that, with nothing but a grin and the brush of his thumb across my knuckles, I’m that fourteen-year-old girl again.

Smitten and helpless to resist the boy in front of her.

I slide back into my seat with a new sense of comfort as our eyes meet—his a vibrant forest green that reeled me in four years ago.

Our futures as actors (or artists, as Miles insists) may still be up in the air—well, mine more than his since I’m still very unemployed at the moment—but maybe this doesn’t have to be.

Maybe Milesol, another fan-generated nickname, doesn’t have to end because Jolia’s story is over.

Maybe I’m overthinking things now that I don’t have anything else to occupy my time aside from teaching Bruiser to sit (pointless) and filming self-tapes (not pointless, but it sure as hell feels like it when you’re not landing any jobs).

Maybe we can have a happy ending too.

“I think we should break up.”

I choke on my water.

Miles leans over to pat my back as I work through a coughing fit, but I push his arm away, suffering alone. Our waiter eyes us warily as my coughs echo through the dining room. Miles turns to give him a thumbs-up and a reassuring smile.

“W-what do you mean we should break up?” I ask once I’ve caught my breath, finishing off my water before taking his and finishing that too.

Despite the rocky start, dinner had been going perfectly. Miles ranted about the price of short-term rentals in New York, I carefully avoided any discussion of my latest round of auditions, and just when I thought he was going to ask me if I wanted dessert, he springs this on me instead.

I did not put myself through the torture of wearing shapewear and a push-up bra to get dumped at Capri.

“Well…” Miles begins. He runs a hand along his modeled-after-the-gods jawline. It’s hard not to be distracted by it even when I’m pissed off and confused. No wonder there are several fan accounts dedicated to posting photos of his jaw.

“Well?” I parrot back when my patience runs out. My voice comes out worn, scratchy. As if I didn’t down enough water to keep three camels going for a year.

“I think we’re going in different directions,” he finally blurts out, avoiding my eyes by focusing his attention on something behind me. “I’m going to be in New York soon for The Limit, and you’llbe…”

“I’ll be…?” I prompt, because I’d love to know what I’m going to be doing for the foreseeable future.

Please enlighten me,Miles.

He bites his lip, clearly weighing what he wants to say as he keeps his gaze fixed somewhere in the distance.

“This is a big opportunity for me,” he says, pivoting after what feels like a hundred years of silence.

“Working on this show could completely change my career, and I want to make sure I’m giving it the attention it deserves. ”

“And you can’t do that while dating me?” I question, crossing my arms.

I’d like to think I’m not a needy girlfriend.

Yes, we used to spend almost every day together on set, so distance would be something new for us, but I know how important this new show is to him.

I know I can’t pop up in New York whenever I want—and, quite frankly, I don’t want to.

Planes are terrifying—humans should not be allowed to go thousands of feet in the air in a metal tube—so I was planning to save my sanity and wait for him to come home for breaks, with one or two visits to the city in between.

I know he’s going to throw himself fully into this role, but is it too much to ask that he save a sliver of himself for me?

“It’s…you’re…” Once again, Miles trails off, and in the silence, I hear a piece of me break.

“I’m what?” I ask, and I hate how small my voice sounds.

How I immediately start combing through years’ worth of memories to understand what could’ve led to this.

A time when I let him down, or said something wrong, but all I can see are the good moments.

The nights talking on the phone until we both fell asleep.

The trips to the beach in oversized hoodies and ball caps so we could avoid being noticed.

The stolen kisses between interviews and subtle brush of our hands beneath tables.

Miles groans, as if my feelings are a chore. “C’mon, you know what I mean.”

“No, Miles, I don’t,” I snap.

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair.

For once I don’t marvel at the ways he’s changed—from his fashion to his hair to his now flawless, acne-free skin.

Instead, I hope his thick, dark hair gets tangled in one of the dozens of silver rings he only started wearing because his publicist told him it was “edgy.”

“We did the whole teen-drama thing together, and that was fun, but I’m ready to start taking myself more seriously. My agent thinks The Limit could get me some major award nominations.”

Okay? Last time I checked I’m as serious as anyone else in this room.

“And I’m not serious enough for you…” I say.

His silence speaks volumes.

“You’re…y’know. You love those Lifetime movies and stuff,” he says finally. “Those type of roles.”

Wow. Okay. My lips part but no sound comes out, and all I can do is stare out the window because I might lose my cool if I have to look at Miles.

Just because I’ve done one guest role in a Christmas movie and gravitate toward romance scripts doesn’t mean I’m not “serious” about my literal job.

Does that mean all he can do is Marvel movies because he’s obsessed with comic books?

And since when does that dictate who is and isn’t “serious”?

What does it matter if I wind up making my living playing roles that I like—roles that are fun and flirty and swoony? It’s my career. Not his.

“Why don’t you pivot and try reality TV instead?” he suggests, as if that absolves him of basically trashing my career. “You loved that dancing competition you did.”

“Because I’m an actress,” I reply through gritted teeth.

Dancing Divas was fun, sure, but I obviously can’t make a living on celebrity competition shows.

And I don’t want to. Contrary to what Miles might think, I’m good at my job.

My Teen Choice Award confirms that. My millions of followers too.

Avalon Grove isn’t the type of show that wins awards like The Limit does, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t crush my performances season after season.

My hot pink nails dig hard enough into my bare arms that pain shoots through me, but all I can do is glare at the boy in front of me, and hope my stare is hot enough to burn.

A server in a crisp white button-down and red silk vest approaches us, speaking in the same heavy Italian accent as the rest of the staff, which we know is for show. Most of the staff here are aspiring actors who wanted a day job that lets them practice their accent work.

“Are you ready to—”

“Not yet,” I interject before the server can finish, the man doing a complete one-eighty the second I interrupt him and walking away before I can finish.